


The Third Year

by meteorshowers



Series: All Falls Are Fatal [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, Depression, Dreams, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Loneliness, Male Friendship, Memories, Memory Alteration, Multi, Platonic Romance, Post Reichenbach, Recovery, Repressed Memories, Romance, Romantic Friendship, Secrets, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-03-29
Packaged: 2017-11-28 21:23:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/679032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meteorshowers/pseuds/meteorshowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson finally enters Sherlock's room to find evidence Sherlock might have left behind for him to find. Immersing himself in research, he doesn't realize how close to danger he really is and no warning from Mycroft seems to change his mind. </p><p>Sherlock Holmes is desperate to go back home, to 221B Baker Street. But before he can go back, there is a lot he needs to accomplish. With help from numerous surprising people, he discovers Moriarty's last assault in the form of Sebastian Moran, a man who will do anything to make sure that John Watson is silent and that Sherlock Holmes isn't alive. </p><p>Only problem is that it might be too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Elsewhere

“Tell me, do you miss him?”

Sebastian tore his dagger from the wooden table and chewed at the inside of his mouth. He examined the markings left behind from the knife, a chaotic pattern of chipped wood. Sliding his thumb along the edge of the blade, the friction threatened to dig into his skin. It was time to sharpen the weapon, or get a new one, a better one.

“Well?” The woman’s voice echoed off the walls. 

_I’d stab her now, if I didn’t have a blunt blade._

Sebastian threw the dagger back into the wooden table, he dug down into the woodgrain as far as he could go. The force of the motion had made the Adler woman jump in her chair across from him. A cruel smile spread across his face, he looked up into her eyes and could smell fear. Her expression was neutral, not as frightened as he had hoped.

“Why are you here, Irene?”

The woman breathed a laugh and slide her hand onto the table and plucked a torn photo from the pile. Sebastian felt more and more agitated with each second that she took a breath.

_He wanted her gone away from here._

_Or he wanted her dead._

“I’m here to check up on you. Jimmy’s secret little pet can’t be alone forever.” Irene smirked and looked away from the photo in her hand. “What do you think he’d say? If he found out what a bad pet you are?”

“Shut up,” Sebastian murmured, grinding his teeth together as he gripped the blade handle and pulled it from the table. This time, a large chunk of wood tumbled onto the ground, leaving a gaping hole in the wooden surface. “Why do you care?” he kept his voice low, calm, for fright that the dead professor might hear their conversation, wherever he was...

_You’re stupid._

_You’ll always be ordinary, a play thing._

_Something to be abused._

_To follow orders._

_A pet._

“I care because I knew him, Moran. I knew Jim, really knew him. And I know that you are better than that.”

“You don’t know. You could never know.”

“Really?”

Sebastian stood from his stool and threw the dagger at the opposite wall. With his hands curled into fists, he turned his back to Irene and moved towards a large bulletin board, covered in maps and photos. 

Pictures of Dr. John Watson littered the wall, different angles, different days, different locations. By now, Sebastian could see the doctor’s face behind his eyelids. He knew every line, every curve, every follicle and pore.

He wanted to kill the man, finish him, long and slow and painful. Something that would make Jim proud. 

_Jim loved pain._

A cold hand rested on his shoulder and he tensed, turning toward the woman behind him. Irene Adler was indeed beautiful, but right now, Sebastian only saw all of her flaws. The creases on her forehead, a couple strands of grey hair, smile lines on either side of her mouth. Even the beautiful Irene Adler wasn’t perfect, she aged like everyone else. Makeup couldn’t hide everything, and Irene knew it. He could see it in her eyes, she hated herself. 

_Maybe they had that in common._

Sebastian Moran stooped down to her level, eye to eye. Irene Adler kept still and silent, her mouth was pursed into a thin line. 

_Even lipstick couldn’t hide her thin, ugly lips._

He had to say something, anything. Looking back down at her thin lips, he reached out to her and slid his calloused thumb across her lips. The red lipstick smeared off of her mouth and made his finger sticky. Looking back into her eyes, he saw a small break in her defences. 

_She was a perfect display of fear and weakness._

_Completely controllable._

_A puppet._

_A pet._

Sebastian stepped away from her and laughed into the silence. The sound echoed into the dark room and sounded sinister to his own ears. The Adler woman was still as a statue, unmoving, her expression didn’t change. It was a mask of fear.

He had to admit, he liked this power… this control that he had over her. It was the first time that he could actually scare someone, control them and tell them what to do. 

_It started with his father. An abusive junkie._

_Then it was the military._

_Then Jim Moriarty._

_But now he was free._

_No longer controlled by anyone else._

_It was invigorating and terrifying at the same time._

Sebastian pulled out a cigarette and flicked the lighter. For a moment, the darkness was illuminated by the flash of fire, but when the cigarette caught the flame, only a faint glow took it’s place. The taste and smell made him feel a little better. 

“Who’s killing off my men?” he spoke as he sucked in another mouthful of smoke. Irene Adler was silent, he could almost hear her heartbeat in the silence that had grown.“Who’s been playing me?” He threw down the cigarette in exasperation and turned towards her. 

“You know… don’t you?” Irene had her arms crossed over her chest, she remained silent, almost daring him to threaten her, beat her, anything to find out.       

_Now, she was playing him too._

“You know… when the military wasn’t good enough… when I got back… I had nothing.” Silence, “When I found Jim… he gave me shelter, a job…” He kicked the glowing cigarette away from his feet, “I gave him everything I had. He told me what to do and I did it. I followed John Watson around, I studied him. Jim said I was skilled at that sort of thing… the stalking, that is. It started when he played that… game, with Sherlock Holmes. The bombs, the countdowns. I did it. And I was the one to bring John Watson to that pool, I was the one to strap the bombs to him, I was the one to set the red target on Sherlock Holmes’ head and his chest. When you got in the way with your petty scandal and top secret information… I admit, I was jealous. Jim was so caught up in you, but I knew that you’d have to slip up and you did. You fell for the insane genius, Sherlock Holmes. You ruined everything, and I think that’s what brought Jim back to me. But even then, I knew that he was hiding something… something big.”

Sebastian threw his fist against the bulletin board, a few papers fell around him. “I gave him everything. I trusted him, I gave him my mind, my skill… my body. I thought he was mine, because he was the only one I had.” He felt tears start to roll down his face, his arms shook against the wall. “He gave me a gift; John Watson’s life. If his plan went well, I’d shoot John Watson dead. But when Sherlock Holmes fell from that bloody rooftop, I understood. I wouldn’t get to kill John Watson, but I’d get to keep Jim. I finally knew… that Jim no longer had Sherlock Holmes. I wouldn’t have to compete with the lunatic anymore. Jim never told me, but he loved Sherlock. His every waking thought was Sherlock. And when I went to the rooftop after Sherlock’s body was cleared away from the sidewalk, when I looked for Jim on the roof of St. Bart’s… all I found was Jim’s body, a bullet in his head, a pool of blood around him. It wasn’t part of the plan, it never was. Jim was supposed to be mine. And now… I have nothing.”

He slid down against the wall towards the ground and curled into a broken mess. Sebastian shook with fear, agony, longing, anger. And Irene Adler just stood and watched. 

“So what is this then?” Irene finally spoke, she pointed at the photos and maps pinned to the wall. “What are you still looking for? What are you still hoping for?”

Sebastian Moran began to pull himself together. Leaning against the wall, he picked up the dying cigarette that he had kicked only a couple minutes ago. It was almost burnt out, the glow was dimming. Pulling it to his lips, he inhaled and let the smoke fill his lungs. After holding it briefly, he exhaled and watched the thick smoke rise from his mouth and cloud his vision. His eyes were stinging, but that was no different from the sting of tears. He could still feel the tears on his face, evaporating by the minute. Irene Adler crouched down in front of him, the way that she leaned over him revealed her cleavage. She’d be so easy to manipulate, so easy to use. Her lips were pale and thin, the lipstick was still smeared along his thumb. 

_He thought about Jim Moriarty._

_The lustful glances, the playful kisses and promises, the pain._

_All the pain that he went through for Jim Moriarty._

_He thought about the news articles._

_John Watson still believed in Sherlock Holmes, still thought he was a brilliant man._

_Sebastian thought about proving Jim wrong._

_He needed to make John Watson shut up._

_He needed to prove to John Watson that Sherlock was an ordinary man, never worth his admiration and devotion._

_Never worth Jim’s admiration and devotion._

_He needed to make John Watson pay for Jim’s life._

_For everything._

_Sniping wasn’t enough. This time it would be personal._

_No guns and bullets._

_Only steel and flesh and blood._

Licking his lips, Sebastian looked up at her with sinister want and bloodlust in his eyes. “I’m going to torture John Watson. I’m going to strangle the truth out of him, every single thing he knows. I’m going to make sure that he has no more doubts about the fake Sherlock Holmes. I want him to see the same pain, the same hurt that I feel. I want to kill John Watson.”


	2. IOU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock did this for a reason.
> 
> He left this behind, along with so many other things.
> 
> And it was all for John.
> 
> ...

Seeing Sherlock’s bedroom that day was something that John would never forget. He constantly thought back to the time before Sherlock’s death. The secrecy, the silence, disappearing into his room for hours on end. John remembered back to the last couple days together; as soon as the clues in the envelops with red wax started showing up, Sherlock spent much more time alone. A couple times, John had knocked onto his bedroom door and asked if he wanted tea, but Sherlock would snap at him with a quick “no”. 

He had to admit, Sherlock’s behaviour had begun to drive him insane. John remembered feeling like he was being pushed away, as if Sherlock was purposefully avoiding him. In the first few days after his death, John felt guilty for not spending more time with him. To speak to him, listen to anything that Sherlock had to say. He wished that he could take back so many things he said, but it was all too late now.

But as John stepped into the room, he realized that Sherlock had a plan. There was _always_ a plan, and if John had opened the door sooner, maybe he’d be so much closer to the bottom of all this. Moriarty’s plan, Sherlock’s secrets, _everything_. 

John thought about all the strange occurrences from the past couple years. The vague replies in his conversations with Mycroft, the strangers at street corners with watchful eyes, the missing files. 

The first thing that John came across in Sherlock’s room was the framed image of the periodic table. It was something that he had teased Sherlock about, but he never realized how important that periodic table would become. John examined the image, looking for reasons that Sherlock would draw with red marker all over it. Three elements were circled: Iodine, Oxygen, and Uranium. John couldn’t properly read the scribbles around the red circles. 

_Sherlock did this for a reason._

_He left this behind, along with so many other things._

_And it was all for John._

He had to admit, it was overwhelming to think that Sherlock had hoped for him to continue this… case, riddle, this final problem. Maybe it was all a way to find and kill Moriarty. Maybe it was a way to clear Sherlock’s name. But Moriarty was dead by now, Mycroft had told him ages ago. Or, at least it felt like ages…

John scanned the room, his heart beat steadily in his chest. It was clear that this was not the way Sherlock normally kept this space. Even the danger nights proved to have less chaos than what this room beheld. 

_This was absolute chaos._

Books were piled on the floor beside the empty bookcases that used to hold them. The bed was disheveled, it looked like it had been slept in only hours ago. There was a distinct smell in the air, almost toxic and very familiar to John (linseed oil?). Papers and news articles littered the entire floor. 

John stood still by the open doorway. He looked lost, he _felt_ lost. He squeezed his eyes shut, rubbing the heels of his palms into his forehead. Anxiety was making it’s way into his system, starting to flow through his blood stream. 

_Everything was too quiet._

He was numb, couldn’t feel his feet on the ground or his hands on his head. John could only feel his steady heartbeat, it all became white noise. The smell was horrid.

_He remembered smells._

_Mary’s shampoo._

_Tea._

_Funeral flowers._

_Blood._

_Car exhaust._

_Damp forestry._

_Coffee._

_Experiments._

_Sherlock._

John’s eyes shot open and he backed out of the room, past the threshold. He felt the doorknob within his hand, he contemplated shutting the door and never looking back. Fears began to bubble up back to the surface.

_This has to be a dream._

_This has to be a dream._

_I’m still sleeping._

_None of this happened._

_Sherlock’s still alive._

_This is just a dream._

He shoulders slumped and he felt defeated. John let go of the doorknob and looked back into the room. 

_I have to do this._

_I have to find a way._

John walked back into the room again and started to collect papers from the ground. He didn’t organize the papers in accordance to their topic, there was time for that later. Right now, he had to tidy the place up. It was only then that John could properly find a way to solve this final case. 

 

Within the next couple of weeks, John had brought Sherlock’s room _almost_ to the order it used to be while he was alive. The only difference now was that the periodic table hung over the sofa in the sitting room, and all the books and papers from Sherlock’s room now sat organized on the kitchen table (where Sherlock used to put his own experiments). 

The deeper that John went into Sherlock’s records and scraps of information, the more complete he felt.

Solving cases had become a huge part of him during the time he spent with Sherlock, solving this case independently made the reason behind this case almost tolerable.

John enjoyed the time alone, but sometimes he’d think about the commentary Sherlock would make at the sight of John’s research. John spoke to himself as if he was speaking to his old friend. Sometimes, the Sherlock in his head even developed a mind of it’s own. Maybe it was a side-effect to finally opening the door to Sherlock’s room, as if he was letting out his spirit (ridiculous). That was something that John found he couldn’t control, Sherlock always had the last word.

_John, you already looked through that article._

“Well, I need to go back to it, Sherlock. I think there was something I missed.”

_Missed? You shouldn’t miss anything, John. Think!_

“Not everyone is as smart as the great Sherlock Holmes.”

_Hmm… I suppose. Though Mycroft would beg to differ._

Time seemed to fly by too quickly whenever John got absorbed in his research. By now, he had realized that there was a code in the _Grimm’s Book of Fairy Tales._

_John, do you ever wonder why I died?_

“What?”

_I mean… the real reason?_

“Yes, of course. All the time. But you never told me.”

_You believe in me._

“Yeah, good deduction.”

_You love me._

“… Yes, I suppose I did.”

_You still do._

“No. You’re dead.”

_But you still care, why?_

“I don’t know.”

_I love you too, John._

“Don’t lie to me, Sherlock.”

_But you know that I do._

“No. You don’t know how to love, you never would. You’re not like me, Sherlock.”

_How would you know?_

“You died, Sherlock. You gave up, you left me.”

_… How do you know?_

“I bloody well know because I DO!”

 

John’s health began to decline much quickly after spending too many late nights researching. He started to forget about eating and sleeping, it just wasn’t important. It was like he was becoming Sherlock. 

_Maybe when you spend enough time on a case you care about, you become irrational._

As much as he thought he was on to something, the furthest he could go was with the _Grimms Fairy Tales_. By examining the periodic table and the three circled elements, John had finally figured out that the three elements periodic numbers’ were referencing to three stories in the book. It was rather lucky that Sherlock had the bloody periodic table in his room. 

The three stories all seemed to loosely link to Sherlock and Moriarty. But John couldn’t figure out their relevance to Sherlock’s death or Moriarty’s final assault. Metaphors would jump before the eyes of an english teacher, but John was never good at looking for hidden themes or links in stories. 

 

With days of finding nothing, John began to feel anxiety and failure weigh him down. He slept much more often now and only answered his phone when his sister was worried enough. John wasn’t the best of liars, but with his sister, he could make himself sound just fine on the phone. 

Mrs. Hudson would come up now and then to make a meal for him or tidy up the flat. She fell back into the same routines she had when Sherlock was alive and it was him that she cared for. But now John was the one who needed checking up on. And she never said anything about all the books and articles that littered the kitchen and sitting room space. She probably knew what he was doing, but she’d never personally ask him. Maybe it was just because she wanted to be polite. Either way, she wouldn’t stop him unless it really caused his health to take a turn for the worst. She cared, and it was reassuring. 

 

Days of nothing turned into weeks, when John had almost given up on finding anything new, something changed. It was a quiet evening in the sitting room with a cup of tea when John saw a flicker in the window of the flat across the street. 

_It was morse code._

The flat had been empty for ages, but tonight was different. John looked through the glass and wrote down the code that he saw through the timed flashes of light.

It reminded him of Baskerville, when he thought he noticed someone doing morse code from a distance. In the end he had been wrong, but this time, there was a strong possibility that he was on to something.

John looked down at the scribbled letters he wrote:

**I O U**

_I. O. U._

John knew that it could mean anything. Something about it seemed familiar, but John couldn’t figure out how.

_Who just sent that message?_

_Why?_

_Is it a clue?_

Though he didn’t know if it was a clue, he knew that he’d treat it as one. Those three letters would run through his head and look for a reason, a memory, anything. It _had_ to be something. 

John looked back at the periodic table the hung over the sofa and stared at the red markings. He wished that he could create his own sort of mind-palace, something to keep documented information. Sherlock would have been able to understand the three letters in seconds, he’d know exactly where to look.

But “ordinary John” had no idea where to go next. And just as he was about to put his empty tea cup in the kitchen, he strode toward the sofa and looked at the circled elements.

_Iodine_

_Oxygen_

_Uranium_

_I. O. U._

Sherlock must have heard of the three letters before, it must have had significance enough. And now it was all linked to these three elements. And as John had discovered earlier, the three elements linked to three stories in the Grimm’s Fairy Tales.

_What else could it all link to?_

_And why was someone sending the morse code to him?_


	3. Questions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why are you telling me this? Why do you care?”  
> ...

It didn’t take Sherlock very long to find Mary’s new flat while he was in Cardiff. Mycroft had kept information about Ms. Morstan in his office, so it wasn’t difficult for Sherlock to find her recent whereabouts. Finding the second assassin had changed everything and now he had to move much more quickly. The man had photos of John, which could only mean that trouble was close at hand and the slightest mistake could mean the end of John’s life. Even though this would go against everything that Mycroft had planned, it didn’t matter, Mary Morstan was the best resource there could be. She’d be able to tell Sherlock everything about John’s progress over the past couple years, she’d know how much John learned about Moriarty and the assassins. Right now, there wasn’t much time to waste and Sherlock needed answers. 

Standing on the first floor of the apartment flat, he rang the bell to her room. Moments later, a woman answered the door. 

_Blond hair, medium length and wavy._

_Fair complexion, freckles on her nose and cheeks._

_She looks up. Soft green eyes._

_She’s shocked, maybe she recognizes him._

_Definitely shocked, and panicking._

_Probably has questions but is rendered speechless._

“You…”

“Yes, I’m Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock fought the urge to roll his eyes and step through the threshold into her room. 

_He couldn’t do that._

_He had to be gentle with her._

_Bad decisions could prolong the chances of saving John._

“Sherlock… Holmes. You…” Mary sighed and blinked down at the ground, her hand clutched onto the side of the door as if she was ready to slam it in his face. “You were dead. I know you were… John…” She looked back up at him and there were tears in her eyes.

For a moment, Sherlock felt pity. Shame and pity for Mary Morstan, the woman who had to be there when John was at his worst. In those brief seconds, Sherlock could see everything that Mary had gone through and he actually felt… shame.

_Sentiment._

“Look,” Sherlock tried to remain as sincere and kind as he could. Standing before him was the woman who brought a little happiness back into John Watson’s life. Even if Sherlock didn’t want to like her… without her help… who knows what would have become of the damaged army doctor.

Sherlock bit his lip and tried to restart his sentence, Mary seemed calm enough to listen to him and that was something that not many people would have done in this situation. “If you let me in for a few minutes, I can explain everything. But I can’t talk out here in the hallway… it’s dangerous. But of course, you could send me away if you preferred, Ms. Morstan.” She seemed stunned, as if her brain wasn’t functioning (probably wasn’t.)

_Simple people and their simple minds._

Without saying another word, Mary motioned Sherlock inside. She tried to offer a kind smile, but it was clear that there was bitter hatred or anger somewhere there as well. Closing the door behind him, she turned to face Sherlock, glaring up at him. 

_There it was, the hatred._

_And she had every right to hate him._

_Along with everyone else._

“Explain,” she said simply, crossing her arms over her chest. 

Sherlock cleared his throat and tried to condense the past two (almost three years). He started with telling her that he faked his death, and the reasons behind that decision. He then told her about the assassins, how he found the first two and the importance of finding the third.

_For John Watson._

Mary stood silent. There were questions, many more questions, he could tell. There was a cold anger in her eyes, but there was also understanding. Because if Sherlock hadn’t done any of this, Moriarty would still be alive, and his only friends would be dead.

But Mary wasn’t the only one who would have questions, Sherlock had many of his own. 

_And all of the questions were about John._

“I came here tonight,” Sherlock decided to venture away from the more personal questions, “Because I know what John meant to you. And I need to know how much he knows… about all this. He hasn’t given up, I know he hasn’t, my brother has told me as much. John wants to clear my name… but in the process, he has brought himself to the attention of some… very determined people… and they will do anything to stop him.”

Mary was still silent, but she was thinking, she was trying to find an answer to his question. Sherlock could almost see the metaphorical wheels turning in her head. 

“John…” she voice was rough but she swallowed and tried to continue, “He was very quiet most of the time. Always thinking. I honestly can’t say that I know if he did any research to clear your name to the press. He never went on that blog of his, but I would often check and find comments on it, other people telling him that he was insane for believing in Sher-… you. Of course there were a few supporters, some people just shared their condolences, or told their own stories about how you’d both helped them on a case… But John never seemed to be looking for anything. He never went through the science equipment, all your things in those boxes. He refused to throw any of it away.”

“What about my room?” Sherlock took a step closer to her and waited for a reply, his heart was suddenly hammering in his chest. He knew that all the evidence was in his own bedroom, but would John ever look inside?

Mary seemed a little uncomfortable with the sudden closeness, she took a small step back so that she could look up at him properly. “He never went inside. A few times, in the night, I’d find him sitting beside the door though… Sometimes he’d fall asleep there. But he never opened the door, never looked inside. If he did, he would have told me. But… he just seemed so unnerved by your room, it’s difficult to explain, but besides the nights where he sat there, he never ventured to open the door, or even look in that direction for that matter. I thought that sitting beside the door might have been one of his old habits, something he did without realizing it.”

Sherlock thought back to finding John by the door on multiple occasions. It was always after a nightmare, but John never told Sherlock about it. The first time that John had done this was the night of their first official meeting with Moriarty. After leaving the pool, John was very edgy. They laughed it off, but when Sherlock woke up the next morning, he nearly tripped over John on the floor outside of his bedroom, sleeping. On some nights, Sherlock would open the door to look down at him, try to wake him up and make him tea. It was something that they never talked about, but Sherlock found himself frequently thinking back to those times. Even with John’s absence, Sherlock still found himself opening his bedroom door (at his family home) to check. 

_Again…_

_Sentiment._

Mary was looking at Sherlock quizzically. Being knocked out of his stupor, he took a step away from her and looked down at his feet. 

_So, John had never gone into his room._

_That was a relief._

_But at the same time, Sherlock remembered leaving every clue there…_

_And he left it all there for John._

_Stupid idea. Stupid._

_The original idea was for John to find the information from his room, something to help clear Sherlock’s name while he finished off the assassins… But Moran had changed Sherlock’s plans._

_Now everything was in jeopardy._

“And John still doesn’t know that you’re alive?” Mary asked quietly.

Sherlock shook his head, “No… I can’t let him know until I find the last man. Moran. After that… I can go back home...”

Suddenly, Mary was smiling at him. Sherlock glared at her, knowing that she must have been smiling for a ridiculous reason. He almost wished that she was back to looking shocked and angry.

“I just told you that a killer is after John, why are you looking at me like that?” 

Mary shrugged, the smile disappeared when he mentioned the killer.

 “You really don’t get it, do you? Did you ever know how John feels about you?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes this time, finally becoming frustrated. 

_She’d have to be much more specific._

“Ah, well, what am I thinking? Of course you can’t know, because he doesn’t know either.” Sherlock felt his heart beat stutter and realized that Mary was being serious, not even a hint of a smile now, the sour expression was back, as if she couldn’t stand looking at him.

_Coward._

_Freak._

_Machine._

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but he couldn’t find words to say, “That’s… not why I’m here… John was…” He looked away, feeling like a child again, every emotion being detected and understood. But Mary couldn’t surely see through Sherlock that easily.

“Oh, I see,” she said. Sherlock turned back towards her and stared her down, waiting for her to finish making her claim, there was a triumphant smile on her face again, “You feel similarly for him too. You know it, don’t you? Perhaps you think you feel much more strongly for him than he does for you…” Sherlock felt pale and stiff, he didn’t know what to say or do, suddenly coming to Mary’s home seemed like a very bad idea indeed. 

_Of course he knew it._

_He always knew it._

_Sherlock had cared for John since that first case they worked on together._

A series of events had proven John Watson to be completely sincere and trust worthy in every respect. First there was John’s first meeting with Mycroft, how he declined the offer of money in exchange for information. That conclusion had led to Sherlock getting John to text the murderer, something that he would never have let anyone else do. Then there was John’s clean shot that killed the cabbie. Sound evidence that John was someone who Sherlock could completely rely on, and it was when he saw the man standing by the police car and looking completely innocent… that he realized this was the friend he had never dreamed of having. 

Mary watched Sherlock, waiting for him to say something. The concentration in her gaze made it look as if she was reading his mind, looking through every memory that had just surfaced in his mind. 

Sherlock turned away from her and pulled out his phone. He looked at the time on the screen, searching for a distraction, something to help him think.

Mary interrupted the silence, “I loved John, I really did… and I still do. But… I knew that it wasn’t going to work. John tried to protect me, but he also had to protect himself. He was so breakable, always on edge. I was always trying to be careful around him because I didn’t want to hurt him. I think… things between us were only going to last for awhile before he couldn’t face it anymore. And seeing you alive before me makes it all the more clear… John will always be waiting for you to come back. No matter how truly he believes that you are dead, there’s a small hope still there. It’s untouchable, really, something that even _death_ can’t change. And I think he’s so determined to clear your name because he can’t live with himself… he regrets so much… more than you know. And I know he would do anything to make up for not saving you that day.”

“Why are you telling me this? Why do you care?” 

“Because I’ve loved and lost too… and that’s something that never goes away no matter who comes into your life. It was difficult, but I moved on. I have a life here now, and somehow the life I had with John Watson didn’t seem to fit right. It was destined for failure.” Sherlock looked at the ground and felt a hand on his shoulder, “He needs you, Sherlock.”

He turned bak towards her again and looked at her.

_She was being sincere._

_She wasn’t judging him._

_She trusted him._

“You make it sound so easy… to let go… How?” Sherlock studied her and waited. He actually valued her opinion, he needed answers. Mary Morstan breathed a sigh and looked away from his gaze, “How could _you_ do it? Let go enough to make a man think you were dead? Put him through hell?”

Sherlock felt anger rise under his skin. Mary wasn’t looking at him, possibly wishing that she hadn’t asked the question. He knew that it was something she would have to ask, but he had hoped she wouldn’t say it.

_He didn’t want to do it, fake his death…_

_He had to._

_But it wasn’t easy._

_It wasn’t easy at all._

“I don’t know what to say…” Sherlock spoke blankly, feeling ashamed of himself. Mary breathed a laugh and walked past him towards the sofa. 

_Sherlock was never speechless._

“What are you going to say when you go back? Do you expect him to welcome you with open arms? John’s not that kind of person.” She knew John better than Sherlock would ever have imagined she would. Mary’s questions were worse than he anticipated, but they seemed to bring him back to the present. _Suddenly, the future wasn’t looking bright at all._

“I need to go back before it’s too late. All that matters to me is that John Watson is safe… without that, I might as well be truly dead.” Before saying another word, Sherlock left the flat, closing the door behind himself and running out onto the street. 

_Seconds were like heart beats._

_Time was running out._

_I’m coming back, John._


	4. Caring Is Not An Advantage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing’s logical.
> 
> “Ha. Really? Because last I checked, all you cared for is logic!”
> 
> But I care for you. And that’s not logic.
> 
> ...

“Mycroft, answer your phone, will you? I have something urgent to speak with you about… and it concerns Sherlock. Please just call me back, or drop by… anytime. Just… yeah.” John hung up the phone and went to the kitchen for a tea.

Since finding the chaos in Sherlock’s old room, John had been consumed with riddles and codes, looking for solutions. Mrs. Hudson would drop in now and then to chat or clean up a bit, her visits were the only thing to keep John company (other than Sherlock’s voice in his head). She tried to mind her own business, but John could tell that she worried about him bring cooped up in the flat for so long. The clinic where he worked didn’t need him often, so there wasn’t much to do other than dig up clues. 

John figured that he was on to something. The mysterious assassins that were never killed became top priority. He always wondered about where they went after Sherlock’s death. Obviously, they wouldn’t need to stay on Baker Street with Sherlock gone, so where would they be now and why were they here in the first place?

The one thing that frustrated John the most was that he had been left in the dark for so long. Sherlock kept these things away from him deliberately, and he didn’t have the faintest idea why. If there was anyone to trust… John thought that Sherlock would have trusted him. But then again, maybe Sherlock kept it all away from him because he knew John would try to get involved and possibly ruin everything. 

_(He probably would…)_

Mycroft was the only person who John could think to talk to about this now. After all, it was _his_ brother who left it all behind. Not the mention, Mycroft was even more skilled than Sherlock at unravelling mysteries, he’d help John with this. The sooner that John could get Mycroft’s help in finding these assassins, the sooner his worries would fade away. 

If John were to tell the truth, he’d say that he was scared out of his mind. Of course, he was always pretty strong when it came to being in dangerous situations, his time in Afghanistan had trained him in many things, but all of that seemed to leave him once Moriarty came along. 

He never would have imagined things getting worse than they were at the pool that night, ages ago, with explosives tied to his body as Moriarty taunted Sherlock in person. But Moriarty’s reappearance after the _Reichenbach Fall_ case made the first meeting seem like a tea party now. Of course, the only reason why John had ever really and truly feared Jim Moriarty was because _Sherlock_ did… and Moriarty’s effect on his friend was most unsettling for him.

After Sherlock’s death, John had been certain that Moriarty was behind it. There was no way in hell that Sherlock would have committed suicide because he was a “fake”. 

_It wasn’t true._

_It’d never be true._

_Sherlock lied._

And the question that John had asked himself ever since the funeral… was why did Sherlock lie? Surely it wasn’t to protect himself, and it definitely couldn’t have been to protect John…

But on the other hand… John had been bait for Moriarty’s mind games. He was a deliberate pawn in the game, something to weaken all of Sherlock’s boundaries. So… was there another way that Moriarty had threatened Sherlock? Something that would endanger John?

_No._

_There couldn’t be._

_Sherlock wasn’t sentimental._

_He didn’t care._

John took a sip of tea and blinked away the insane questions and ideas that began to take root in his mind. He didn’t want to think of this… any of it. And maybe if Mycroft wasn’t such a bloody prat, he’d contact John and tell him that he was wrong yet again.

_Always wrong._

_And John wanted to be wrong this time._

_Sherlock didn’t die for John._

_He never would._

John’s cell phone rang, and without looking at the Caller ID, he answered, “Hello?” There was no answer, only a poor connection with a crackle on the other end. “Hello, is there someone there?” John waited again but there was still nothing. White noise began to surround him, it was becoming to much. He bit his lip and tried not the panic, and before lingering on the line any longer, he hung up and threw his cell phone onto the kitchen table.

_That was odd…_

Taking another sip from his now-lukewarm tea, John picked up the phone again and looked at the call history. The last call was from an unknown number, not very helpful at all. Just as John was about to leave his phone again, it started ringing in the palm of his hand. This time, the Caller ID showed “Mycroft Holmes” on the screen. John relaxed a little and pressed down the button, “Hello, Mycroft?”

There was a pause on the other end, John felt his heart beat begin to quicken again but there was finally a reply, “Hello, John. Sorry but I was caught up in business earlier. Was there a matter you wished to discuss with me?”

John felt relief, “Yes, yes there is. I was actually wondering if you could come down to the flat, I pulled up some information that I thought you’d be interested in.” There was a short pause before Mycroft murmured a distracted “go on.” John proceeded to tell Mycroft about some of his observations, the hypothesis that he had over the assassins, and questions that he hoped Mycroft could answer. 

When John finished his speech, Mycroft was very eager to speak, “John, I’d advise you, for your own safety, to stay out of the matters concerning those assassins. I have employees who are already searching them out. If you like, I can send you progress reports, but much of the information is classified and still being processed properly. Where’d you happen to get these ideas about the assassins, John?”

“I went into Sherlock’s room and happened to find some things that related to the final cases before his death. Maps and case files mostly… but there was something else that could be important. Mycroft, what do you know about the initials I.O.U.?”

There was a longer pause on the other end of the line this time and John wasn’t sure what to make of it. He felt his mouth go dry as he realized that this prolonged silence couldn’t be good at all. Mycroft was usually quick to speak, but this silence was just about as erie as the silence during the phone call before this one, with the unknown number. 

“… Mycroft?” John paused and listened to a distant sound from the other end, Mycroft must have been ruffling papers. “John, what do _you_ know about the initials I.O.U.?”

“I asked you fir-”

“Yes, I know. But I want you to tell me what you know of these three letters.”

John dumped the little remains of his cold tea in the sink and leaned against the kitchen counter. “Well, Sherlock has mention of the three letters within the scraps of case files that I found. He also circled three elements on the periodic table in his room: Iodine, Oxygen and Uranium: I,O and U. I figured out that the periodic numbers for these three elements also happen to refer to three stories from the _Grimm’s Fairy Tales_ book we found at the crime scene. In the case with the two kidnapped children, that book was found in the girl’s dormitory room. Lestrade brought the book over to the flat a couple months ago, along with some of the other evidence. I just wasn’t so sure why Sherlock would need reference to three stories and how they could help find the assassins, or even the kidnapper of the two children. It could be anything, really. The research that he left behind is all pretty vague.”

“John, that evidence should have stayed at Scotland Yard. Are you trying to get Inspector Lestrade into even more trouble?”

“No… but-”

“Have you told anyone else this information? Even Lestrade?”

“No, not even Mrs. Hudson. She’s seen everything lying about, but she hasn’t actually looked at any of it properly.”

“Has anyone come into the flat as of late? Strangers? Plumbers?”

“No, I don’t believe so. I could ask Mrs. Hud-”

“John. Promise me this now, and listen to me clearly. I want you to put all of the research away. Store it somewhere where no-one else can find it or burn it for all I care. Just do this as soon as you can. If any of that information got into the wrong hands, it could mean that we are even farther from finishing off Moriarty’s network.”

“Fine, fine… Thanks, Mycroft…” John felt his heart sink in his chest, it seemed that Mycroft wasn’t going to be as helpful as he hoped. If anything, telling Mycroft about all this suddenly seemed like a very bad idea. 

“Right. I have a lot of business to attend to, as you know. So if you don’t mind, John, I need to go for now. But please, if anything strange occurs… tell me as soon as you can. I’ll have someone keep an eye on the security cameras throughout Baker Street. Just don’t try to play “hero”… Sherlock’s death was a tragedy… but it doesn’t mean that you have to make up for it. It wasn’t your fault, John Watson.”

John was stunned by Mycroft’s words. He wasn’t sure if he should feel insulted or thankful. Mycroft was hardly ever sincere, but this time… it almost seemed like his own way of being truthful and real for once. 

“Thanks…” John cleared his throat, “Fine… I’ll just… take care of things. Bye, Mycroft.” John felt a little weak and unstable. Mycroft murmured a “goodbye” and hung up. 

Flinging the cell phone back onto the kitchen table, John braced either side of his head within his hands. Everything was pounding. John could feel the beginnings of tears forming beneath his eyelids but he tried to will it all away. 

_He thought that he was finished with this…_

_The grieving._

Blinking at his surroundings and leaning onto the table with his palms, he scanned every surface. 

_Dishes._

_Papers._

_Books._

_Tea cups._

_Everything had to go._

Pulling himself up and standing straight, John didn’t know where to start. His hands shook as he dropped two used tea cups into the sink, something shattered, but he ignored it. A couple dishes went into the sink too, he managed not to drop them onto the tea cups but the clattering sound they made in the hollow sink rung in his ears. His palms were numb, he couldn’t feel the paper under his fingers. Testing the tendons in his arms, he scrunched the paper into his fisted hands.

_What are you doing?_

It was that voice in his head again, John bit his lip and tried to ignore the soft sound of the voice he thought he’d have forgotten ages ago.

_What are you doing, John?_

“None of your bloody business.”

John proceeded to tear a few pages in half, scribbled words on paper that didn’t mean anything anymore. Everything was blurring, out of focus.

_John._

“No… go away.”

_No._

He was rendered speechless by the voice in his head. For a moment, he stopped destroying the scraps of code and research. The voice was silent, he hoped that it wouldn’t return.

After throwing all the research notes into a bin, he stacked the books on the table. News articles with crude yellow highlights stuck out of some of the books. John put the _Grimm’s Book of Fairy Tales_ on top of the pile and took the heavy stack back to Sherlock’s room. It’d serve as a sort of burial ground for all of this crap.

_What are you thinking about?_

“How stupid I am. Really stupid. I’m such an idiot, you were always right.”

_You’re wrong._

John dropped the books onto the floor by Sherlock’s bed, it made a loud thud against the wooden floorboards. He clutched at his head and pushed into his skull with the tips of his fingers. The pain was supposed to make the voice go away, but it didn’t work.

_John. Are you really going to do this?_

_Are you really going to listen to my brother?_

_That would be a first…_

“Shut up.”

_Do you think I would have ever stopped?_

_Do you think I ever would have given up?_

John laughed, the tears actually came this time. “Yes, yes you _would_ , Sherlock. You did! You died! You gave up! Why?”

The voice was silent.

“You died Sherlock. I was there, I saw you fall. You left… so you’re gone.” John let out a quiet sob, collapsing onto the edge of Sherlock’s bed. “You’re not even here right now, talking to me. It’s just my brain.”

_No._

“What? You’re lying to me again, now. Stop it. Just… stop talking to me.”

_No._

“ _Why_ are you doing this to me? Haunting me?”

_I’m not._

“How would you explain this, than? It’s not logical.” 

_Nothing’s logical._

“Ha. Really? Because last I checked, all _you cared_ for is logic!”

_But I care for you. And that’s not logic._

“Are you just trying to insult me now?”

_No, John. But it was never logical to me…_

_I could never find a way to describe this._

“What?”

_Us._

“What do you mean: _Us_ ”

_Forget it._

“No, explain.”

_… I can’t explain it._

“The “great Sherlock Holmes” can’t describe something? Why? Because it’s emotion? Feeling? Sentiment?”

_Well… yes._

“But what do you mean by “us”?”

_I mean… how I feel about us._

_You and me. It was never logical._

“You’ll be the death of me.”

_But you knew this. You don’t think it’s logical either._

“How would you know?”

_Because you’ve thought about it too._

_You’ve always defended yourself and your honour, as if everything was an insult._

_Everything they said about us… you hated it._

“Because those accusations weren’t true.”

_Yet you still question that, yourself._

“What are you saying?”

_You know this, John._

_You know that I care._

_Really care… about you._

_It’s obvious, John…_

“How do I know that you care? If you cared, you wouldn’t have-”

_I love you._

“You don’t know what love is. How could you know that you “loved” me?”

_Love, John._

“What?”

_Present tense._

_I love you._

“Ok, fine. But how?”

_Once you’ve ruled out the impossible, whatever remains…_

_However improbable… must be true._

“True? How could I know what’s true anymore?”

_But you do know._

“You keep saying that, but I can’t believe it.”

_No, you just decide not to believe it._

“Look, Sherlock… I cared too. Still care. I… suppose I love you. But, I’m not g-”

_Stop!_

_Every time you- Just stop._

_It’s not about sex, John._

_Love isn’t about sex!_

“No, I suppose not… but in this case-”

_Of course._

_John Watson can only validate love if it’s a woman._

_But if it was ever a man._

_Even just… one man._

_It’s different._

_And it means that John Watson has to defend himself every time that someone makes a bloody observation!_

“What are you talking about?”

_Irene Adler._

_I was there too, remember?_

_I heard everything she said, and you said._

“What does this have to do with-”

_Listen to me, John._

_Loving someone doesn’t mean that it changes your identity._

_It also doesn’t mean that it’s rational… but it’s sentiment._

_It’s not all about relationships either, it can be in anything._

_And somehow, you’ve gotten it stuck in your brain that love means sex._

_And that means… that you will always dismiss the notion of love._

_Loving me…_

_Because you’re heterosexual._

“The only thing that’s stuck in my brain is you. Just leave.”

_Only if you will me to leave._

_Do you really want me gone?_

“Yes.”

_Fine, than, have it your way._

“Sherlock… Sherlock?” John spoke into the silence, there was no reply. John looked down at Sherlock’s bed, he had forgotten that he was sitting there. There was a feeling of release in the air around him, as if something had left the room. John realized what had happened, he realized that when he asked the voice to leave this time… it left.

_And now John was back to being completely alone._

_Truly alone._

John felt the sheets under his hands, he gripped onto the mattress for support. A weight had been lifted off of him, he could feel it. And maybe it was the mourning, maybe it was over. Maybe John could finally move on. But that’s not what it felt like. This was much different. There was a new guilt within him, and this time he’d have to suffer it alone. 

“Sherlock… please come back. Don’t leave me. Don’t go, please don’t go,” John laid back onto the mattress and put his hands over his eyes. 

_Sherlock, I’m sorry._

_I only meant to say that I love you too._

_Nothing more._


	5. Initiative

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing mattered.
> 
> But everything mattered.
> 
> John mattered.
> 
> ...

“Mycroft has his people watching Baker Street. John hasn’t left the flat except for work and Tesco. He hasn’t spoken to Mycroft for quite some time after their most recent conversation, a month or two ago. But apparently John has indeed left all the research behind, so we won’t need to worry about him getting involved with any of the plans,” Irene said as she tapped into her phone. 

“But my brother doesn’t know half of all this. He doesn’t know about the photos. He doesn’t know about Sebastian Moran. He doesn’t even know that _you’re_ alive!”

“Sherlock, you’re overreacting. I spoke to Sebastian myself, and I told you everything that he told me.”

Sherlock was pacing around Irene’s flat. He was too distracted to try his Mind-Palace, but he needed to think. Everything had escalated so quickly after killing the second assassin, and this final man seemed to be the worst one of all. If Sherlock had it his own way, he would have made sure that Sebastian Moran was the first to be killed. After all, Moran was the one who took control of the web after Moriarty’s death, they could have destroyed the web much faster. But Mycroft, of course, had other plans. “Tell me, what did Moran say? His exact words.”

Irene sighed and crossed her arms over her chest, “I’m going to kill John Watson. I’m going to strangle the truth out of him… I’m going to make sure that he has no more doubts about the “fake” Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock collapsed onto the sofa and curled up in on himself, burrowing into the cushions. The words pulsed in his mind, they felt like poison in his system. He didn’t notice the light touch of Irene’s hand to his shoulder as she sat down beside him, he didn’t feel the gentle kiss that she planted on his cheek. 

_Nothing mattered._

_But everything mattered._

_John mattered._

“Darling, are you really going to do this again?”

Sherlock willed himself to remain silent, but there was always a reply on his lips, in every situation.

_Almost every situation._

“What else is there to do? I’m… lost,” he whispered, resenting himself even more as the words came out. 

_This was one of those moments where cocaine would really help._

“I’ve never known Sherlock Holmes to be lost. He never _gives up_.”

“I’m not giving up!” Sherlock snapped back, finally turning to look at Irene. She stared back at him with wide eyes, she almost looked… naive.

_As if._

“I’m just… stuck. I don’t have anything. Cigarettes, cocaine, nicotine patches, a violin, _nothing_. I need all my senses to be in check, I need stimulation, I need… I don’t know what I need.”

“You need your old life back,” Irene said in all seriousness, “You need John back. And the only way to get any of that back is to finish this.”

Sherlock turned away from the woman and curled up even further, hiding his head beneath his hands. 

_He didn’t need Irene to state the obvious._

“What happened, Sherlock? Something changed in you… since I saw you last. Something is eating at you and you’re not telling me.”

_Where to begin?_

_Someone is watching John’s every move._

_There’s a possibility that John might have cared about him more than he ever let on._

_Now, Sherlock couldn’t suppress his fears and his emotions._

_And it was disturbing his thinking process as well._

“I’m afraid… and I don’t like it. The last time I was this terrified… it was only about a bloody hound that didn’t even _exist_. _That_ fear was induced by chemicals. But this is an entirely different fear. And there’s so much more at stack.”

Irene didn’t say anything, he could feel her weight lift off of the sofa as she moved away, her high heels made a dreadful echoed tapping sound against the floor boards. 

_Think._

_Think._

_Think._

_Just one needle._

_One dose…_

_No._

_Just think._

_Moran could be anywhere, but he’s probably in London._

_Unless someone else was doing the dirty work for him._

_Highly likely._

_The neighbour across the street._

_The Russian killer._

_She could be his personal spy, watching John._

_Yes, that’s it._

_One phone call to Mycroft and she could be taken care of…_

_But it wasn’t that easy. It can’t be._

_Moran is still out there. He’s priority._

_Possibly… Maybe._

_Either one of them could have John killed in a matter of seconds._

Sherlock scrambled off of the sofa and moved across the room to get a drink. Irene watched as he poured Vodka into a clear glass and downed it in only a couple swallows. Everything was dark and quiet in the flat, past midnight most likely. Sherlock didn’t know the date or time, he’d lost track since leaving his mother’s house. A couple years ago, he would have known every detail, every hour, minute and second. But something had changed since, something weakened all his senses, all his useful senses… and replaced them with something new, senses he’d oppressed with years of practice.

_Sentiment._

He was becoming his own worst enemy, an empty shell. This was the one thing he promised that he’d never become, and he failed. 

“Look, John’s in danger still, we both know that. So that needs to be our priority right now, you need to go out there and find Moran. If Moran discovers that you’re alive, there’s even more of a risk. The first two assassins you killed saw you, they knew it was you, but who’s to say that they are the only ones to know? Word can spread quickly through a web like Moriarty’s. You have me, you have all the information I got from Moran. John will be alive, as long as you are still a secret. No-one can know that you’re alive. You are the deciding factor in all this, the only time to act is now, before it’s too late.”

Sherlock looked out the small window of the flat, a single word repeating in his mind like a heavy pulse.

_Obvious._

_Obvious._

_Obvious._

“Irene… I already know all of that. But it’s not helping, it’s not going to make me find Moran any sooner. If he’s my priority, I need a location.”

“He’s moved around a lot. He’s even been out of the country for awhile, making sure nobody was on his tail. Sherlock, Sebastian is good at hiding, he’s a sniper. He’s trained to watch from the shadows, you wouldn’t _believe_ how many times he’s been right under your nose but you never noticed. Moriarty had you set as a target for ages, and Sebastian has worked for him quite awhile, longer than you’ve known John Watson. Only, once _he_ came into the picture, Moriarty was much more keen on destroying the two of you.”

“Why not just me? Why does he care about John?”

Irene breathed a laugh and looked down at her phone, a blue glow lit her face and the small smirk at the edge of her mouth, “It’s _obvious_ , Sherlock. You already know this, is your skill for observation really fading this fast already?”

_Moriarty… his words at the pool..._

_“I will burn you…_

_I will burn, the heart out of you.”_

“Of course, he thought that the only way to get through to me was to use John.”

“And he was right.”

Sherlock glared at her, biting his lip before losing his temper. 

“Don’t give me that look, darling. You lost the game, you already know this. It’s the only reason why you’re here right now, and the world thinks you’re dead. _John_ thinks you’re dead.”

In seconds, Sherlock strode over and was standing directly in front of Irene, he gripped either side of her shoulders in his hands and dug his fingers into the thin fabric of her blouse and the flesh beneath that. “But I _didn’t_ lose. That’s why I’m still alive, nonetheless. I was clever enough to fool everyone into thinking I’m dead, I… I told John that I’m a fake, I sacrificed my pride, my life. I did it for him, and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. It’s true… I let sentiment get the better of me… but I didn’t lose the game. Moriarty is rotting in the ground, not me. _He_ lost.”

Irene Adler looked up at Sherlock without emotion, maybe she expected this from him. Maybe she hoped to anger him enough to get him off his arse and give him the boost of courage to find Moran. Sherlock let go of her shoulders and stepped away. He retrieved his coat and his cell phone before moving to the door. 

“Where are you going?” Irene spoke shyly from the other side of the room, her voice was quiet and gentle, possibly apologetic. 

“Out. I… I need some air. I need to think.”

“Let me go with you.”

“No.”

“Sherlock, you can’t go out there alone. What if something happens?”

“What could possibly happen to me at this point? We’re in Gloucester, no-one’s on our tracks. I just need to find some cigarettes and a hiding place. Maybe an alley-way or a rooftop. Just… don’t follow me. I have my phone.”

“Be careful.”

“I’m not a child, Irene.”

“Sherlock”

Sherlock turned quickly and knocked into Irene. His chin grazed her forehead, he could feel her body warmth, could smell the perfume in her hair. He was anxious and intoxicated by the aroma and feel of her arms as she caressed him. 

Irene was holding him, both her arms circling his torso and reaching up to touch the nape of his neck. Sherlock closed his eyes and swallowed the lump in his throat, trying to suppress the shiver that threatened to roll up and down his spine. Her head was resting against his upper chest and collar bone, the fine hairs that had escaped her bun were tickling his throat and chin. 

In truth, Sherlock had never been embraced in such an intimate way before. His family was never keen on physical affection, he had never had a lover, nor relations with other people, never known what it felt like to hold someone close. To have them return those affections… it was all so alien to him.

Too many details were running through his mind at once, but he tried to drink it all in, even if he’d never wanted the affection of this woman. Sherlock tried to relax in the embrace, every muscle felt too tense and stiff. With hesitation, he curled his arms around her back and returned the embrace, leaning his face down onto the top of her head. 

_Right now, in this moment, it wasn’t Irene’s intention to seduce him._

_It was pure affection, actual sentiment and concern._

_He could feel it in the urgency of the moment, as if this was to be their last meeting._

_A final goodbye to_ The Woman.

_Maybe she thought he’d come back, maybe she knew that he wouldn’t._

_Either way, she accepted him as he was…_

_And Sherlock understood that._

_He knew._

Sherlock lifted his face from her head as she moved to turn her own face upwards. It was a signal, Sherlock knew that much. It meant something, and Sherlock was weary of this part. 

Irene lifted up closer to his face and he felt every muscle in his body become tense again. He wanted to stop her, warn her, push her away. But he didn’t know how. Irene’s lips were so close to his own that he could almost taste her, he could feel their inhales and exhales intermingle. 

She looked up into his eyes and he tried to respond. Irene smiled and cupped the left side of Sherlock’s face in the palm of her hand.

_Maybe it was understanding again?_

Either way, just as he thought she was going to pull him in, Irene Adler left a gentle kiss on the corner of his mouth. Sherlock wanted to shy away, but it was already over, and Irene was stepping out of his arms. The ghost of a kiss was on the side of his mouth, his first kiss.

_But not a real kiss._

“Let’s reserve your lips for John, shall we?” Irene smiled up at him, crossing her arms over her chest. 

Sherlock swallowed and bit his lip, he tried not to smile or laugh. Running a hand through his hair, he spoke in a whisper, “Thank you.”

Irene beamed at him, all the heat of their past argument was gone, vanished as if it never happened. “Your welcome. Be safe and keep in touch.”

“I will,” Sherlock shrugged his coat onto his shoulders and buttoned it up to his neck, next he wound a plaid scarf around his throat. After smiling back at her, he opened the door and walked out, quietly shutting the down behind himself.

When Sherlock got to the first floor of the apartment flat, he strolled out the side exit and took a side street to find a store where he could find cigarettes. The weather was cool and the quiet of the night was almost too erie for the likes of Sherlock. A small corner store was lit up ahead of him at the end of the street, a large sign read: OPEN 24 HOURS. 

Paying attention to his surroundings, he came up to the road and crossed to the other side of the street. When he opened the rusted door, a bell sounded. There was a small middle-aged man behind the cash register, reading the news paper while fighting the urge to fall asleep. 

After selecting a packet of cigarettes and a lighter, Sherlock paid the man and left the store in a hurry. Crossing the street again, Sherlock crept towards a nearby alleyway and leaned against the graffitied wall. The glow of the lighter’s flame lit up his surroundings for a moment before lowering the flame to the edge of the cigarette. A burning grow replaced the flame and Sherlock took a long drag.

The smell and taste of the smoke brought him back to his past, it was comforting.

_Almost too comforting._

The sound of a car was coming down the street at a steady pace, too slow for driving on the main road. Just as he dreaded, the car slowed down and stopped right beside the entrance to the alley where Sherlock stood. The familiarity of the car was slightly comforting, but Sherlock scowled and tried to ignore the familiar silhouette behind the tinted glass. 

After taking a few more drags from the beautiful cigarette, the familiar figure in the backseat opened the car door and walked towards him. Sherlock exhaled a large cloud of smoke and looked down at his shoes.

“Good evening, Mycroft,” he murmured as he sucked in some more smoke. 

“Sherlock, you need to come with me.”

“Whatever for?”

“Business. Important matters.”

“What kind of business?” Sherlock was becoming frustrated and impatient, he wished to be alone.

“John Watson. Does that sort of business interest you, little brother?”

Sherlock turned towards Mycroft and put out the cigarette against the wall, crushing it between his fingers. 

“What about John?”

Mycroft hesitated, looking away for a moment before giving Sherlock an exasperated stare. “This is not a matter to speak of here. We must take this somewhere else, somewhere private.”

Sherlock felt the blood drain from his face, without another thought, he stepped into the car and sat down as Mycroft followed him inside. 

“We’re to go back to London. There is much to discuss with you, Sherlock.”


End file.
